


Fire & gasoline

by WendigoBaby



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: BAMF Magnus Bane, Battle Couple, Flirting, Killing enemies in style, M/M, Magic, Making Out, descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 06:30:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10656849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendigoBaby/pseuds/WendigoBaby
Summary: It's easy to fight like the solitary creature you were taught to be, but now they're in love.Now, their lives consist of touch-starved hands, warm mouths, the weight of a Seraph blade in a hand and the crackle of magic.In two words: battle couple.





	Fire & gasoline

**Author's Note:**

> This has gotten incredibly out of hand, at first an indulgent short thing that grew into this monstrosity, but I enjoyed writing it and I hope you enjoy reading it!

When the lights go red and the alarm rings out in the Institute, Magnus is with Alec. They’re in his room, now barely ever used and dusted over, but still necessary for those rare occasions they stay overnight, too tired or maybe just too lazy to portal to Magnus’ loft – their home, away from the world. Aside from just wanting to spend more time with Magnus, this is one of the reasons Alec moved out as soon as the decision was just formality hanging in the air, a question to be asked and answered with a sweet smile – not having to be woken up with something akin to horror movie-esque shelter sirens in the middle of the night.

 

It’s a hollow kind of sound, urgent and calling for attention – Alec breaks their kiss to roll his eyes and sigh out a resigned curse, because getting interrupted seems to be their thing, but Magnus just laughs before briefly pressing his kiss-wet mouth over Alec’s deflect rune, the soft prickle of the goatee making Alec give a breathy chuckle. They’re tangled in each other up against the door, long legs wrapped around a muscular waist, Magnus’ weight pressed against Alec, chest to chest, Magnus’ hands travelling over Alec’s thighs and ass, Alec’s hands tugging at hair, bodies alive with slow dripping pleasure that’s now been ripped from them in the most unfair of ways. The air between them is humid with possibility, with the unspoken ideas, some of them including Alec dropping to his knees and some with them sans clothes, just coal-hot skin, moans reverberating through the room like a choir echo and _Alexander_ whispered like a praise.

 

Magnus swallows before speaking, his voice gravel-hoarse from equal parts desire and disuse. “Plenty of time to continue this later, pretty boy.”

 

Alec gives that crooked smile as his eyelashes flutter with the sound of the nickname. It’s obvious how much he enjoys the way it rolls off of Magnus’ tongue, a specialty, something reserved only for him, the sweetest kind of drug. They both move with the utmost reluctance – Magnus slides his hands up torturously slow until they reach a waist he knows by heart like a well-used map and allows Alec to get used to standing again; with satisfaction, he watches Alec’s thighs tremble. It takes the highest levels of self-control Magnus possesses to keep his hands steady as he straightens out the wrinkles in Alec’s t-shirt, who looks awfully enticing, all red mouth and quick heartbeat, lower lip trapped between teeth like an invitation and eager body unable to stop reaching out for Magnus – fingers playing with the shimmery necklaces, like he wants to do nothing more than to pull him back in.

 

It’s one more kiss, chaste in comparison to the predecessors, a promise of _more_ later, coats picked up from the floor, then the door clicks shut behind their backs, loud in relative silence like the thud of a judge’s gavel. They leave the room with fingers linked; Magnus lets himself be pulled along the breezy hallways, even though he knows the way like the inside of his pocket. Alec is walking in long strides, the Pavlovian instinct to fight and defend ingrained into him like a rune, but Magnus is right by his side, matching his pace easy like breathing; he would say they spend too much time together to be this attuned, but no amount of time is ever close to enough.

 

The OPS center is crowded with Nephilim dressed in black, the hustle and bustle of getting battle-ready loud in their ears like a buzzing of a beehive. They’re akin to them, Magnus thinks, relentless in their duties, moving like dark shadows against the glow from the blue-tinted screens. Whispers hang between mouths, _did you hear, did you know_ , most seem to put on their gear like it’s nothing more than motions, habitual thing like dressing themselves in the mornings. The late hour doesn’t help their enthusiasm, as some of them were already getting ready to tuck in for the night. 

 

When they step down the small set of stairs into the main area, some heads turn behind them. There’s voices saying _Good evening, Mr. Lightwood_ and _Welcome, Mr. Bane_ , there’s respectful head nods and lingering glances as they pass through the mass of bodies, the Red Sea parting willingly. Magnus can feel the somewhat fresh shift in attitude, partially due to Alec taking over as the Head of the Institute and installing his own rules while the iron’s still hot and partially from the New York Shadowhunter community seeing more of Magnus in battle, seeing his true power aside from the fearful rumors, seeing how easily he mows through enemies with magic as red as their blood as it spills over his hands. How quickly once-tedious battles end in a snap of fingers as soon as Magnus Bane shows up. He’s the golden-plated feather tipping the scales of justice in favor of his allies.

 

It spreads like wildfire in spoken word and takes over like a plague. The tongues speak of dog-like things with multiple gnashing jaws full of jagged teeth, summoning circles as nothing more difficult than hopscotch; they tell the story of scorched marks where he stands and of thunderclaps when his anger boils to a point of burning; they whisper he glows with energy like a supernova, creating and destroying in equal measures; they wonder if he is the son of a god fallen from grace just to find different reign. It’s the kind of well-deserved recognition that makes them step out of Magnus’ way and it feels so good to be royalty.

 

Quickly, they find Isabelle who fills them in on what’s happening , but not without sparing them each an appraising look and a smile with an obvious meaning. As Alec straps on his thigh holster and the brace for his bow, she explains: an attack from the Circle members that they haven’t caught yet, a sort of retaliation for capturing Valentine and ruining their plan of mass murder; it’s the whole package – rogue Shadowhunters, a bunch of Forsaken and demons summoned in exchange for sacrifice of the innocent. Izzy twirls her staff and calls it a good workout, then they pour outside. 

 

_The show starts._

 

While the sun has set long ago, an acne-scarred full moon hangs high up in the sky, bathing the park before them in pale light, shifting through the bundles of white fog that curl along the uneven ground. Stars blink slowly, dying and rebirthing themselves above their heads, accompanied by the warm, dim glow of yellow-tinted lanterns dusted all around the alleys until the dense line of trees. Lazy New York hums around them, anonymous laughter and cars driving from somewhere else to somewhere else.

 

Even though the Nephilim ranks are more sparse than ever (some lost to previous skirmishes, some still out on patrol duty), there’s something hanging in the air that feels charged with adrenaline and determination and a will to win. A dark, navy sky hangs heavy and the moonlight blinks across Magnus’ earcuff when he turns to look at Alec. His jaw is tight and the focus in his eyes sets something alight inside Magnus’ chest, the raw strength in his stance, the tall way he stands. The shadows in the dips of his cheeks and in the hollow space beneath his brow bones make him look like a marble-carved demigod frozen in time. Magnus’ heart thrums with anticipation. They were made to be fighters, they were made to run like wolves side by side, to draw blood and bare their knife-sharp teeth. 

 

Across from the Institute cathedral, down the hill: their enemies, surrounded by cotton candy waves of fog. A match-n-mix of familiar and new faces, disfigured and angry, seeking revenge for things done right. Magnus smiles as the tips of his fingers flicker to life with yellows and oranges and reds, a violent sunrise of power. Alec barks out orders - _fan out, don’t get surrounded, aim for leaders first, keep the Institute safe_ ; he draws his bow, nocks an arrow and glances sideways with a quirk of his mouth. Magnus replies with a smirk of his own.

 

“You ready?” He asks, hands poised in the air like a conductor’s with a song about to begin in a chorus of screaming voices. 

 

“I’m always ready.” 

 

Alec releases the chord on his bow and the arrow flies with a high arch, not aimed at anyone in particular. Magnus speaks a spell under his breath and a ball of light soars just as high and meets Alec’s arrow just as it starts to fall. The runes on it flare up as it disappears just to turn into its own multiples – a carpet attack to start things off with a bang.

 

The Circle members start rushing forward in a loose charge and some fall, struck by the sharp rain. After that, it’s all organized chaos – the two sides mix in a clash of Seraph blades, but Magnus and Alec never stray far from each other, working like a one minded creature. 

 

Magnus’ movements are graceful and dance-like when he dodges a blade coming at him from the side – a quarter twist, a quick swipe of feet and a heart burned out of a traitor, a perfect imprint of his palm left behind. After Magnus pushes his magic into the Circle member’s chest, the smell of burnt flesh lingers like a warning. The next two are grabbed by the necks, and when Magnus claps his hands together, the skulls smash against each other, there’s a wet crack followed by eyes rolling back and bodies falling limp. Magnus feels his magic sing wild like a flame doused with gasoline – it crawls up his forearms, licking at the golden buttons on the sleeves of his favorite maroon coat, stark against his red-splattered, once white shirt underneath. 

 

The fabric twists and fights against the sweeping movements as Magnus sends a force wave to knock down a demon, a lumbering amalgamate of what probably used to be different entities fused together. Before he even opens his mouth with an offer, an arrow whizzes past and lodges itself in where the demon’s energy source should be. Billows of ash dance around the edges of Magnus’ boots as he swivels around. 

 

A couple steps behind his shoulder, Alec with eyes glimmering all mirth, dangerous and an enticing kind of flirty. Magnus can feel a wandering gaze, hazel eyes working their way from Magnus’ mouth to his chest, all the way down then all the way back up. It’s the kind of look that’s hungry for more, for something sweet and something with a little bit of spice. Alec raises his bow, quick and sharp with a well-aimed shot at someone to Magnus’ side, a 1-2-3 movement before his attention is back where it was.

 

Alec looks up from beneath the fringe of dark eyelashes, a small flush over his cheeks and nose from the cold, a sly tilt to his mouth. Magnus can’t help the fond smile working its way onto his own lips.

 

“You seem distracted, Alexander.” He teases, turning away brown-eyed to survey the fog-muddled park, but when their gazes meet again, it’s amber and green and yellow against shimmering gold. 

 

The shadowhunter in question swallows around the words stuck in his throat at the sight of Magnus’ cat eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing enticingly with the motion, making Magnus want to surround it in pretty purple marks. The battle is still going around them, ruthless and ugly, and they’re both well aware of the fact, but there’s a tide pulling them close, half a mind focused on surviving and half only on the one before them. 

 

“Cause you’re distracting me, Magnus.” Alec finally speaks in a tone that sends a pleasant wave of warmth through Magnus’ chest and they both step closer to each other, intent on not losing their impromptu staring contest.

 

There’s someone sneaking up behind Alec, but Magnus doesn’t bother – with a flick of a wrist, he forms a ball of energy and sends it curved towards the black-clad enemy, knocking them a couple of feet back with the impact; powerful enough to kill in seconds. Yet, Alec’s eyes never stray from his, unbelievable trust put in Magnus’ strong hands, shoulders squared, but his deer-eyed gaze soft and full of veneration. _This is what love is._

 

Magnus puts his hands on Alec’s waist beneath the worn leather jacket and tugs him closer by the beltloops, close enough to feel Alec’s chest move against his own and feel his need like a physical thing, how much he wants to touch Magnus and it’s almost overwhelming still, to be wanted this much. 

 

“Come on, we have a battle to win.” The words are left without heat, gruff chastisement just for the sake of it being said and on the record; as much as Alec is a responsible person, he is not a saint.

 

Their lips brush against each other as Magnus speaks. 

 

”Try to keep up with me, Shadowhunter.” 

 

Alec all but purrs, but what actually escapes him is a low chuckle, teasing and amused in equal parts.

 

“Is that a challenge?”

 

“It just might be.”

 

“Okay. You’re on.” 

 

The playful tension between them is palpable like a touch of fingers down a spine, a push and pull, a competition, where the prize doesn’t change - it’s always kisses, no matter whether you’ve won or lost, just that the latter comes with a bit of ribbing.

 

They’re nose to nose and Magnus can feel the tickle of Alec’s mussed up hair on his forehead when he reaches for his thigh. Deft fingers tug at the straps of the holster and slide underneath them, the warmth of Alec’s body radiating through his pants, infinitely hotter where Magnus’ digits press in before he undoes the little latch and pulls the Seraph blade free between them. It splutters to life, at first flickering white only to fill with a crimson red, like ink spilling in water and Alec draws in a sharp breath through his nose, both of their faces lit up in the glow. 

 

“We should get a drink after we’re done here. Also, I’m borrowing this for a minute. ” Magnus says, all casual, and turns away, new weapon bared and ready to kill.

 

As Alec nocks another arrow, his eyes are glued to Magnus’ back as he stalks off after a scared-shitless Circle member; he swallows around the dryness in his throat and continues to take down enemies, one by one, falling like marionettes with the strings cut before they get too close for comfort. Alec never fails to find a delighted sort of thrill running through his body at the instances of Magnus’ power – usually, it’s only an everyday part of casual spells, but when they train with each other or go out into battle, it’s something entirely else. It’s a carnivore waiting to sink their teeth into soft flesh, it’s the knife-sharp focus, the stone-steady calculation, the easy-coming elegance of his hands moving in the air; all of it always manages to draw Alec’s gaze, make his heartbeat skip and stutter. 

 

Bit by bit, they move down in an uneven wave, Magnus and Alec pushing forward and leading at the front – a famed battle couple; Lightwood and Bane, the Warlock and the Nephilim, the yin and the yang. Where at first their sole existence together raised eyebrows and elicited mocking laughter _(it’s impossible, it won’t last, they’re too different)_ , now hushed silences blanket the crowds when their names are said, because they are not a force to be reckoned with. They are frostbite coated anger and the harshest of judgment. 

 

_Do not cross them._

 

While Magnus opens a ribcage with a twist of the blade, the enemy’s fingers scrabbling at the hilt stuck deep in his solar plexus, a wordless plead for mercy that Magnus does not offer, sternum cracking and ribs giving way to rough strength until the last breath is gone, there’s Alec aiming a shot straight through the middle of the Circle rune, the arrow breaking through muscle and bone and veins like through butter. The round rune lights up bright red as the body drops with a cut-off noise of surprise.

 

Pleased with himself, Alec turns to Magnus, who’s watching him, a corpse at his feet and blood dripping down the blade, hair tousled artfully and teeth glinting in a wolf’s smile. 

 

“It was a solid eight out of ten.” He says just to provoke while he wipes the sword on his pants leg, cat eyes glowing in the night’s dark.

 

Alec makes a noise of offended incredulity, throwing his hands out to his sides. “Oh, come on, it was _at least_ a nine. It was a bullseye!” 

 

Magnus shrugs with only one shoulder, busy with forming a ball of magic he hurdles at a group of Shax demons. The magic envelops the beings, sucking them into its center like a black hole. They both watch as the already strange bodies twist and contort before bursting into ashy confetti, just without the satisfying pop, instead with a cacophony of screaming that makes Magnus wrinkle his nose in a displeased manner. 

 

“Okay, an eight and a half, but no more.” He answers, raising his free hand to point at Alec’s chest.

 

Alec just snorts, eyes rolling as he pulls another arrow from the quiver over his shoulder. "Okay."

 

It’s a long battle - longer than anticipated, since reinforcements seem to appear out of thin air and when Alec reaches back to grab another arrow, he finds his fingers grasping at nothing – he’s clear out of ammo and there’s two people with Seraph blades coming at him. He’s got maybe ten seconds flat and just thinks _fuck it_ , before aiming a kick straight to someone’s guts and swinging his bow around like a staff; perhaps the methods are crude, but this is Alec Lightwood at his truest – a dirty fighter, all raw strength and the sound of knuckles against bone. The pain is ever-present, but it just adds more flavor – the sting of splitting skin, blood running down his hand, the purple and blue bruises. 

 

That’s when he stops thinking and lets his body go – throws a handful of earth and tackles his blinded enemy to the ground, a gloved fist driving down over and over again, his own teeth gritted as the man beneath him heaves a breath, the last of his consciousness gone. Alec Lightwood may be a leader, a diplomat, but he’s still a skilled hunter, blood-thirsty and merciless because _if you are not with me, you are against me_.

 

The one he stunned with the hit from his bow, a woman with what seems to be blonde hair, puts him in a chokehold, but before she can tighten her grip, Alec stands up with a noise deep in his throat, unsteady with the added weight on his back as she clings to him, relentless. He grabs at her arm, fingers digging into flesh and hurls her over his shoulder, enjoying the heavy, breath-taking thump she lands with. 

 

Then there’s Magnus saying his name and Alec just stretches his arm out to the side as he goes into a crouch, intuition and well-trained strategies paying off – the tips of his fingers graze the hilt of his blade and he tightens his grip around it; a perfect throw executed without a single spared glance. Alec allows himself a moment of smugness about it before driving the sharp tip through the attacker’s skull. 

 

Magnus reaches to set his hand on Alec’s arm – they’re both breathing kind of heavy, because this is not a three-person brawl, but a fully-fledged clash of two worlds that they’ve been fighting with all they have. 

 

“This has gone on for too long.” Magnus says and after Alec agrees with a hum while he reaches to retrieve his bow from the ground and set it on his shoulder. Magnus moves away a couple of steps and goes down on one knee, his hands pushed against the dirt, fingers digging into the soft, cold soil while he speaks words that do not belong to any mundane language. The earth beneath their feet shifts and shakes and roars to life; Alec watches people stumble to keep themselves upright as their enemies are swallowed by chasms appearing and disappearing at a certain warlock’s will, his eyes closed and brow furrowed in concentration. 

 

Some trees fall in the process, the yellow lamplights flicker and fade. It only lasts for a moment and is over quickly like a beautiful firework show, but instead of vivid colors, it’s death in a spectacular manner. Magnus gets up and dusts off his pants, looking over his shoulder with a pleased smile as Alec gives him a slow clap, before dipping into a courteous and exaggerated bow accompanied by a flourish of hands, like an actor after the end of his show. 

 

“That was… incredible.” Alec says, voice soaked with a flirtatious kind of fascination.

 

“Want to get out of here?” 

 

Alec nods and they start walking slowly away from the crowd – there will be reports to write, papers to sign and work to be done around the cathedral, but for now they’ve done their part, bloody hands tangled between them. It’s so quiet now, in comparison – no clang of metal against metal, no noises of fatigue, just people looking around for their companions, gathering weaponry and treating the wounded ones. 

 

When Magnus opens a portal, Alec bumps their elbows together. “I want a milkshake.”

 

Magnus hums, looks down first at himself and then at Alec – both of them dirty, splattered with different shades of crimson. “Do you think we’ll get a discount if we walk in looking like this?”

 

They both laugh at that mental image and start to step through the swirling gateway.

 

“What, the ‘ _oh god, you’re covered in blood, everything is 20% off_ ' deal? I don’t think so.”

 

“You never know, Alexander.”

**Author's Note:**

> All comments and kudos are deeply appreciated; 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr under the name 'maghnvsbane' <3


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